


Peace

by dragoninatrenchcoat



Category: Back to the Future (Movies)
Genre: Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Post-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-16
Updated: 2014-08-16
Packaged: 2018-02-13 09:31:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2145711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragoninatrenchcoat/pseuds/dragoninatrenchcoat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Marty thought it was hard to go darting about through time, then it's twice as hard to come home from it. He needs to talk to someone about all that's happened and how to adjust to this brand-new life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Peace

It wasn’t easy.

It’d been a month since the whole time-travel fiasco. Marty was amazed at how quickly everything had happened. He’d spent seventeen years in a rundown house in the Lyon Estates with a father who hardly dared to think for himself and a mother who lived day-to-day with a small glass of something he was never allowed to try. Then, just for a couple weeks, his life had been filled with time travel, with spur-of-the-moment life-or-death decisions, moments where his skills in every aspect were put to the test, where it felt as though the whole world were on his shoulders. Then, just as quickly, it was over.

Seventeen years--his whole life--erased by just a few trips in a DeLorean.

At first, Marty was pleased by every little change. He and Jennifer were happy together. He had the truck he’d always wanted. His mom and dad were happy, healthy, and successful. His brother and sister were full of education and promise--more so than before, anyway.

But he soon realized he’d kind of expected it to end. Like a vacation in the 1950’s, or 1880’s, he had assumed on some kind of subconscious level that everything would shortly go back to normal. Maybe life under Biff’s thumb hadn’t been good, but it was all he remembered, and he kept expecting to wake up to the smell of burnt toast forgotten in his dad’s haste to get to work or the sound of cupboards slamming shut as Dave rummaged through for the last old box of cereal.

He never did. Instead he woke up to the smell of fresh coffee and the sounds of eggs sizzling on the stove. He didn’t know what he must have done in 1955 that convinced his mom to become more of a cook, and he spent more time than he probably should trying to dig through every conceivable consequence of each of his actions, trying to come up with a reason.

_It doesn’t matter_ , he told himself. Wasn’t this better anyway? Why was it so off-putting? What’s wrong with having a well-rounded breakfast?

He had so much to get used to and he was being so slow at it. He was so used to making quips at Linda’s expense about not having a boyfriend, and now he always had to catch his tongue because none of them would make sense. There had always been something familiar, off perhaps but normal, about watching TV during dinner, and now he had to keep up with conversation which always, _always_ went over his head.

Marty felt like he was drowning. He felt ridiculous for it, but it was true. He was constantly worried that what he didn’t know would keep adding up until someone declared him crazy and checked him into a hospital. And he knew with absolute clarity that that would not help at all.

He did, at least, manage to keep up appearances for his family. He felt pretty stable in that respect; he’d always been a good actor, and quick on his feet. For every dropped fact he had a hundred remarks, and there was always an excuse for not quite catching onto that inside joke. Whenever things switched into a subject he didn’t know about, he could smoothly direct conversation back to something he did. And misspeaking here or there was easy to turn into a quip, a quote, a reference, and then whoever he was talking to would smile and laugh and the matter would be dropped.

The problem was, he knew this was supposed to stop eventually. He knew he was supposed to catch up with his own family’s history and get on with his life--his _better_ life. But he couldn’t. Every day there were five new things for every one he learned, and he just couldn’t seem to get out from under the landslide.

Marty spent a lot more time in his room since it was the only thing that had remained exactly the same. He knew he had to do something to get out of this mess, this carefully-constructed house of cards that kept getting taller and taller. Maybe he was exaggerating it all in his mind, maybe it wasn’t so bad as it seemed, but he kept coming back to the pure, basic fact that he _couldn’t_ know seventeen whole years of a life he was never really a part of.

If he had someone to talk to about it--anyone at all--things could be so much better. But the only person he could talk to was gone. His best friend, a man decades his senior, was God-knew-when. He probably wouldn’t see him for ages.

He’d have to declare him dead or something and put all his junk in storage. The idea made him shiver.

But if not Doc, then who could he possibly tell? Not Jennifer; she refused to talk about the one trip they made together, as though it had been some kind of horrible nightmare. Not Linda or Dave, they would never understand. His parents would probably try to find him psychiatric help.

He paused that thought. Would they? His mom, maybe. She seemed pretty level-headed. But George? He was a sci-fi writer now. Who better to confide in than a man who'd devoted his life to creating extraordinary circumstances? Fictional ones, but it was probably the best Marty could hope for.

Of course, he’d have to find a good way to bring it up. Some way to edge into the conversation, something understandable.

\--

It’d been a long day. It was a Saturday, and Marty’s whole day had been filled with misremembered events--no, not misremembered, because in order to misremember something you have to have known it in the first place--and irritating non-sequiturs. He could almost feel his grip on this family slipping. He had to talk to someone about it, soon.

Dave went out with his friends after dinner, and Linda had been out of town since Friday. Marty was a little surprised when he found himself sitting on the unfamiliar expensive-looking comfy sofa in the living room, George, so much more like the ‘55 kid than like the dad who had been constantly bowed under his own fear of rejection, tapping away at a keyboard not too far away. He wondered where his mom had gone, then remembered a half-muttered remark about a bath and the sound of the bedroom door shutting.

He sat up in the quaint silence. The past month had been a blur of white lies, stress, and no privacy; he hadn’t really expected to ever be alone with his father.

Nervously, he stood up and sauntered over to where his old man was writing. “What’s that?” he asked, which sounded stupid to his own ears.

“I don’t know yet,” George answered, taking the opportunity to stretch his arms over his head. “I want to write a second book. I’ve been wanting to since the manuscript of my other book was accepted, but I haven’t been able to come up with a story. I was hoping that just sitting down and writing something would help.”

“Did it?”

He sighed. “Not really. I’m probably going to delete this whole thing.”

Marty swallowed. Maybe he shouldn’t tell George. Being a science fiction writer wasn’t a guarantee of accepting a story about time travel as being true. It probably wasn’t the best idea.

_But, neither is lying for the rest of your life._

“Dad?” he said, and winced at the lame start. Usually he was better with words.

George must have noticed the difference in his voice, because he turned to look at Marty. “What is it?” he asked, with an eerily attentive gaze, like a man might look if he had the time and energy to really listen to his children, if he wasn’t constantly being weighed down by the stress of an unhappy life. It made Marty uncomfortable. He pulled up a chair and sat in it, wringing his hands.

“I... have a story.” He wondered how blatantly obvious it was that he was about to confess something. “For you to write. If you want.”

George’s eyebrow raised a fraction, and Marty thought that maybe the-man-that-is-technically-his-father knew, but maybe he didn’t, and maybe it’d be better if Marty didn’t know. “Alright,” George prompted.

“It’s... about this boy,” Marty started. “A teenage boy. He wakes up late all the time and rides a skateboard to school where his girlfriend helps him sneak past the teachers so he doesn’t get marked tardy.”

His dad’s attentiveness, while still being strange, helped Marty. He felt like he could keep talking, like he wasn’t going to be mocked or ignored, like he could say anything.

“His home life... isn’t perfect,” Marty continued. “The house is a mess. No one in the family had gone to college. His parents are probably in love but they don’t act like it. His brother works at a fast food restaurant and his sister only just barely graduated high school at all. The TV’s always on and the dad has this horrible nine-to-five job with a sleazy supervisor who gets him to do all his work for him.”

George frowned slightly. Maybe Marty threw him off. But it didn’t matter. He had to keep telling the story now, because he had to tell _someone_ , anyone, even as a fiction.

“The thing is, this kid is friends with the town eccentric, an inventor who’s thrown away his whole life savings and the family fortune on this one crackpot idea that he’s been working on since the ‘50s. The boy doesn’t even know what this machine is, he’s just been helping out testing random gizmos here and there, but one day the Doc calls him up and has him run out to the mall where he’s testing out his time machine.

“It’s a real time machine, and it works. But there’s a horrible accident and the boy ends up travelling back in time to the year 1955.”

George nodded along. Marty was pretty sure he had him convinced that it was a fictional story. Maybe that’s for the better. He cleared his throat, nervous.

“He runs into his dad, and the sleazy supervisor who always bosses him around. Turns out the supervisor is a high school bully who uses his strength and his weird buddies to intimidate the kid’s dad into doing his homework for him.”

George leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms. This part probably hit a chord.

Marty ran a hand through his hair. “So, uh, he follows his dad because he doesn’t know what else to do. And--well, he accidentally changes history.

“See, his dad was _supposed_ to get run over by a car in the middle of the road. Then he would have met the kid’s mom, and they would have fallen madly in love and gotten married. But when the kid saw him about to get run over, he saved his life and changed history.”

George shifted his weight. Maybe his memory was working. Maybe he was just thinking about plot points. Marty couldn’t really tell.

“He finally finds Doc--uh, I mean, the inventor he’s friends with, and tells him all about the time travel mistake. The inventor says he can help him get back to his own time, but first he has to fix the history he’s changed. Because, by pushing his dad out of the way of the car, he’d endangered his own life. You could tell because in the picture he had of him and his siblings, his older brother was starting to fade away.”

Finally, his dad spoke up. “I don’t know if that’s how it would work.”

“Well, it was,” Marty answered, then quickly amended. “When I thought of it. I mean, you could probably change it if you want. That just seems like how it’d work to me.”

George nodded to that.

“Well, anyway, this teenager had to make sure his mom and dad met and went to the dance together and fell in love, because that was their story. And he had to do it before the lightning hit the clock tower, because that’s the only opportunity he had to get back to his own time. So he made friends with his dad and tried to convince him to ask out the mom to the dance.”

There’s a definite look of recognition. Marty wondered if he’d get his dad to believe the whole thing. Probably not.

“Er, well, things didn’t really work out that way. See, when he got run over by the car instead of his dad, the kid accidentally got his mom to fall for _him_ instead, because of some kind of Lawrence Night... thing that nurses get, I don’t remember.”

“Florence Nightingale?”

“Yeah, that. So, she wanted to go to the dance with _him_ instead. Her son. It’s really weird.”

George rested his chin in his hand. “Okay,” he prompted speculatively.

“Well, the kid tells the dad to go and rescue her from the car. But what the kid doesn’t know is, well, first of all, he can’t exactly try and... you know, _take advantage_ of her, even pretend to. I mean, it’s his _mom_. Then the door opens and he thinks, thank God, the dad’s there already, he doesn’t have to do anything. But instead it’s Biff. I-I mean the supervisor,” he quickly corrected. “The- the bully guy. He has his mooks haul the kid off to the trunk of some guy’s car. Eventually he sorts all that out, and finds out that his dad rescued his mom! Which was a bit weird since his dad had never stood up to--uh, the supervisor, in his life.”

He’s sure George knew who he was talking about. He had to remember. But did that mean he’d believe him? Had he told Marty about the other-Marty before?

He took a breath. “So, that’s basically it, more or less. I mean, the kid accidentally introduces Johnny B. Goode a few years early.” He laughed nervously, then cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “But, um, then there’s the really weird part. See, he makes it back to his own time, the- the future, and he finds out that the world’s a little bit different.

“Which makes sense, in hindsight, but he just wasn’t prepared for it. The family’s happy. The house is clean. There’s no TV during dinner. There’s a brand-new truck in the garage. The, uh, the dad had never given up on his dreams, like he had before.” He looked down at his hands, realizing this had probably been a stupid idea, but he kept talking anyway. “And the kid doesn’t... remember it. He doesn’t have all the same experiences as everyone else. And he tries to fit in, but... well, the truth is he grew up in a different house. And while things are better here, they’re different, and he shouldn’t miss his old life because it wasn’t as good, but he does anyway. No one else notices all the changes. Why would they? I mean, he can’t tell anyone, because time travel isn’t possible. It’s a… a science fiction story.”

It was silent for a few moments. Marty didn’t dare look up from his hands. Telling George had been a stupid mistake. The raw truth of the fact that he couldn’t confide in the man who was supposed to be his own father hit him, and it hurt, but not quite as much as the realization that, better or worse, he’d never see his old father again. The man who had cackled at the TV and bought toffee from the solicitor. He’d had that realization before, but it kept coming back, and it hurt fresh every time.

He shook his head, not looking up. “Nevermind,” he said. “It was a stupid idea.” He stood up and left the living room.

“Marty...” George started, but Marty didn’t stop until he got to his bedroom.

\--

George watched his son leave the room, not sure what he’d just heard.

It was true that Marty had seemed to be off for the past few weeks. Not sick, or mentally ill, just a bit different. Sometimes George had caught a look in his youngest son’s eye, like he was hiding or compensating for something, and there were some jokes he didn’t laugh at like he had before, some jokes he found funny that he hadn’t really in the past.

But - that didn’t mean that what George had just heard was the _truth_. It was just a story idea. A very poignant one.

He’d told Marty about the man after whom he was named, of course. A couple references here and there, a short story when asked. That could have been where he’d gotten the idea from. Except, had he told Marty about almost getting run over by the car? Had he told him about the ‘plan’ to rescue Lorraine?

He must have.

\--

Later that night, George and Lorraine were climbing into bed. He was about to turn off the radio when a familiar song began: _Johnny B. Goode_. He frowned. Where had he heard that before?

“Ooh, I remember this song,” Lorraine said. “Remember Marty, from high school? He played this up on stage. Right before he went all crazy on the guitar.”

George turned to face her. “He did?” he asked, insistent. “I thought that song didn’t come out until later.”

“Did it? I don’t remember.” Lorraine hummed along with the radio as she climbed under the sheets. “No, it must not have. I definitely remember Marty singing this. Maybe it was brand new.”

He stared at the radio. “Maybe,” he responded, then turned it off.

“Hey, whatever happened to Marty, anyway?” his wife asked as he clicked the bedside lamp off, shrouding the room in darkness. “I haven’t heard from him.”

She didn’t press when George didn’t answer, and they both fell asleep.

\--

Marty didn’t want to leave his room when he woke up the next morning. So long as the door stayed shut, he could pretend nothing had changed at all, and sometimes when he heard Dave’s loud voice leaking in through the wall he could imagine his brother sitting there in his silly clown costume--which was what Marty had liked to call it--at the messy dining table.

It wasn’t like he wanted everything to change back. Of course, their lives were better this way. _All_ of their lives were better. He just liked indulging for a few moments in the morning, pretending, if only for the sake of his own sanity.

He also liked to pretend he was getting used to his new life, that he was getting into the routine. He knew it was a bit odd to pretend both things at once, but it worked so he didn’t really question it.

Marty eventually decided that if George--he had to start calling him Dad even to himself, which really wasn’t that difficult but still somehow was--asked, he’d say he’d been writing that story from last night for a few months now. There’s no way he’d think it was true. It should be able to blow over pretty easily.

He headed out into the hall, smiling at the smell of fresh pancakes. Fresh cooked breakfast on the weekends was odd, yes, but something that was most definitely an improvement. “Smells great,” he called out toward the kitchen as he approached.

“Good morning,” his mom replied. “Dave isn’t back yet, it’s just the three of us this morning. You know what that means.”

Chores? Movies? Books? Marty had no clue what that meant. “Yes I do,” he lied.

“You get the Firstborn Stack,” she finished. Marty was pretty sure he’d never heard of a Firstborn Stack. He leaned into the kitchen to see her pile quite a few pancakes onto a plate.

“Firstborn Stack?” he asked.

“Dave’s portion,” Lorraine answered, holding the plate out toward him with a smile.

He didn’t remember his mom divvying portions by birth order, but then he didn’t remember his mom divvying portions at all. “Far out,” he said with a grin, accepting the plate. Pancakes for breakfast was a good start to a Sunday. Unlike yesterday’s stress, today felt like it might not be so bad.

Maybe getting it all off his chest really had helped, even if the person he’d told didn’t believe him.

He saw George sitting at the dining table, eating what must be the Father Stack in front of a bottle of syrup and a butter dish. “Hi, Dad,” Marty greeted, grabbing the syrup as he sat down.

“Good morning, Marty.” Was that some kind of apprehension in his father’s eyes, or was Marty just reading into it? He decided to fix it.

“Sorry about last night,” he said casually. “It was late, and I’d been working on that story for a few months so I was a bit nervous about bringing it up.”

He saw something relax in his dad’s gaze. “It’s pretty good,” he admitted. “Why were you nervous about bringing it up? You should write it yourself. Maybe you could get it published.”

“That’s why I was nervous, Dad,” he countered easily. “I knew you’d get on me about it. I don’t really want to write books, no offense.”

“You have a real talent. But, of course, I won’t force you to do anything you don’t want to.”

There was a comfortable silence for a few moments, then his mom came in with what was presumably the Mother Stack and sat down with them. They had a light conversation as the pancakes gradually disappeared, first about tennis, then about Marty’s future, which led into the topics of college and high school. The plates were empty by the time Lorraine turned to George with a smile.

“Do you remember the guy who ran against you for Class President, George?” she asked. “He was a character. Not the guy that won, the other one.”

“Who, Al?” George laughed. “He was certainly one of a kind.”

“He told everyone there were spirits haunting the school,” she told Marty. “George,” she suggested, “why don’t you go and see if you can find an old yearbook? I’m sure there’s some photos of the Class President race in there.”

“Yeah, that sounds fun,” he answered with a smile, and stood up from the table.

As he headed for the attic, Marty and his mother stood up and cleared the table.

“This is nice,” she sighed. “I like these relaxing days when we can just sit and talk. I feel like we don’t do that anymore.”

“I feel like that’s all we do,” Marty pointed out, picking up the empty glasses and carrying them to the sink.

She chuckled. “You’re a kid,” she said dismissively. “Everything that involves staying inside seems relaxing to you.”

They worked on the dishes for a little longer, then Lorraine nodded toward the attic. “Your father’s been in there for a while,” she said, with just a hint of concern. “Why don’t you go and see if you can help him out?”

“Alright,” Marty answered.

He hadn’t been in the attic before, but he knew where it was. The ladder was already down, so he climbed up into the small, warm space.

It was cramped, with no standing room. The floor was mostly unfinished wood, cut away in some parts to run the air conditioning vents, and by the light of two hanging bulbs Marty could make out a corner filled with old boxes and the frame of his father sitting by them.

“Need help?” he called, shuffling awkwardly toward the corner until he was next to his dad. He glanced around between the cardboard boxes, covered in thick dust. “Wow, I didn’t know so many boxes were up here,” he remarked.

“1958,” George said. His voice made Marty pause. It was serious, and kind of surprised and calculative, so different than how they’d all been talking for the past hour. Marty sat on his heels as his dad turned to face him, a look on his face like he was trying to solve a particularly insane puzzle. In his hand, Marty could see a vinyl record labelled _Johnny B. Goode._

Realization filled Marty, and he felt his face go slack. For once, he didn’t have an answer. George probably knew that the dance was in ‘55; how could he not? He scrambled for a response, any response. “Uh, I,” he said, running his hand through his hair. “Look, uh, I know what you’re probably-”

“You were really there, weren’t you?” his father asked, straightforward. He looked straight into Marty’s eyes for that last confirmation, dead serious. “You’re Marty. You're _that_ Marty.”

Marty hesitated. “...Yeah.”

There was a moment of silence as George categorized the information. Marty didn’t really know what to say, so he didn’t say anything. His dad’s eyes flashed suddenly in surprise.

“Time travel,” he said, astounded. “Doc Brown invented a working time machine?”

“Yeah,” Marty answered, not sure what else to say. “It’s gone now, though.”

“And you...” George set the vinyl down on the box unconsciously, narrowing his eyes in thought as he looked at Marty. “You really don’t... remember anything, do you?”

He ran his hand through his hair again, anxious. He had thought he wanted to tell someone, so why was he so scared now? “No,” he said quietly, nervously. “No, I don’t.”

It was silent for a few more moments, and suddenly Marty couldn’t stand being looked at like that anymore. “Mom was wondering what was taking you so long,” he told him. “She sent me up here to-”

George interrupted him by reaching across the short distance and pulling him into a hug. Marty was surprised for a moment, then he reached his arms up and hugged his dad back. For a moment he felt like a little kid who had almost gotten lost in the mall, just happy to have a parent and reluctant to let go.

“You’re still my son,” George said. “No matter what else changes, you’re always my son and I’m always your father. Alright? You can count on me.”

Marty felt something inside him crack, and his grip tightened, his face pressed into his father’s chest. He ignored the feeling of hot tears running down his cheeks as he nodded into George’s shirt.

They sat there for a long time, long enough for Marty to really feel what he hadn’t been letting himself think about. He held onto him. It really didn’t matter which version of George this was; it’s _Dad_ , and it felt like Marty hadn’t seen him in so long, like he’d really started to accept the idea that he’d never see him again. Time seemed to stop and give him a chance to really _be himself_ for the first time in a month.

“I love you, Dad,” Marty said, the words nearly mangled.

“I love you, too, son,” his dad answered, his voice quiet and sombre.

When the moment ended, Marty pulled away from his father and rubbed his nose on his sleeve. He shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said. "I know it's stupid to miss someone you never lost."

"It's not stupid, Marty," his dad contradicted. "Everything's changed, right?. At the very least, you're going to experience a kind of culture shock."

"Yeah, but it's been a month already."

George put his hand on Marty's shoulder. "It's alright. Just relax. Give yourself plenty of time and don't worry about how you look. You can always talk to me about it, about anything."

Marty nodded, then looked up at his father. "How do you know what to say?" he asked with a small laugh. "This whole thing is impossible."

"I have a good imagination," George answered with a smile. "Look," he said, "I don't want you to feel alone. Let me help you."

Marty let out a relieved sigh. This was what he'd been wanting. Someone, anyone to talk to about it, someone he didn’t have to pretend around. He nodded. “Of course, Dad.”

"Boys?" his mother called up the ladder.

"Be right down, ma," Marty called back, rubbing his eyes.

"You alright?" George asked.

"Yeah. Yeah, thanks, Dad. I'm fine. Thank you."

His father clapped him on the shoulder, then got up and awkwardly hobbled to the ladder in the small space. "We couldn't find them," Marty heard him tell her before descending.

He sat in the attic alone for a bit, trying to make it look like he hadn't been crying. Then he took a deep breath and followed his parents downstairs.


End file.
